Fanfic: Lunatic Calm (1/1)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Lunatic Calm
Author: Avarice
Rating: R (warning for violence & gore)
Pairing: -
Spoilers: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.
Summary: Ever wonder where Angelus got the heart he presented to Dru in Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered?
Word Count: 982
Date First Posted: 31-05-2002
Date Revised - 12-05-2011
Beta: Kita
Awards: -
Notes: In rereading this one, yeah, it's a little gross, but I love how it came out. I think the images of Angelus becoming himself again in Angel's skin were really effective.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also archived at: LJ

He smells her from a block away, over the exhaust fumes and smoke. She is lavender and something more flowery. He could open his mouth and taste the sweetness on his tongue.

A bell tinkles in the night air as she closes the door. Keys grind in the lock, and the percussion of her heels on the pavement merely adds to the glorious symphony of mundane human comings and goings.

One foot strikes sharper on the ground than the other with an irregular beat, and paper rustles. She is put slightly off balance by an armful of bags that weigh down one side. Cumbersome, lopsided, disproportionate. A weakness.

His walk is familiar. No, a century ago it was familiar. Now his gait is stiff, cramped from under-use. Like being shoved into a tiny box in the black recesses of his own mind.

He stretches his legs now, and each step gets easier. He remembers the path, the destination, and where it led. Remembers walking on a road paved with corpses.

The stride is languid. It's a glide, not a shuffle. A shuffle never suited this body, there has only ever been one way to walk. Shoulders back with purpose, head up, eyes taking in everything. He steps out of the house and into the magical technicolour land of Oz. Bright and vivid, it scorches his eyes, peeling away the smoky layers that had accumulated.

He licks his lips. They turn up crookedly, in a gesture so familiar and yet so foreign. He was not allowed to remember, but the body never forgets.

Memories are twisted, sometimes vague, but mostly honed with sharp clarity, and he remembers howling.

Rip Van Winkle's sleep for a hundred years is over. And as he moves, the lethargy built up in his limbs and his body is slowly dissolving.

He wears his skin well.

He follows, quietly, playfully. Listens to her clear her throat, flip her hair, and hum to keep her own fear and the night monsters away. Protection from what lurks...

Because isn't that what it's all about? The coat will protect her from the cold and the shoes will protect her from the glass crunching underfoot and there is no dark thing waiting to snatch her life away because she murmurs the words to a song and that is enough that they can't touch her he can't touch her.

But the pure of heart can accomplish anything. And his heart is not contaminated any more.

The Romani did not fill a void; they pushed the voice of conscience into a body where there had never been one. Their sorcery hid away the darkest desires, but they only became more potent with time. Like a fine liquor, anger was replaced by rage, jealousy by madness, lust by obsession.

They cursed themselves.

The night is beautiful, needlepricks of light poke that ink blue canopy. Yellowed moon in the sky nothing more than a sickle. A finely curved blade, slashing the throat of the sky.

But for that to be completely true, it really should be red.

Red. A red skirt clings to her shapely thighs. Red are the clouds at sunset, heralding the beginning of darkness. The sheets he tainted her on. The haze of pure rage. His dead sire's favourite colour. Aged wine. The droplets running over his wrists. The gaping hole in her chest.

He uses his hands bluntly, punching through flesh. Bone fragments pierce his own skin, digging and sticking in. Blood stains his hands scarlet, soils tatters of her cream-coloured blouse. Soaks until the red turns black.

And this is not about Dru, or Spike, or Buffy. It's not for his sire, or bloodline, or reputation. Those things don't matter. Not in this moment, when the smell of blood is so strong in his nostrils. Where his teeth itch, and throat screams for the trickling heat.

Flesh opens up to caress him, envelop him in its warm embrace. It is red and oh so beautiful and how could he have existed without it for so long?

It's warm. Warm and tight and bloody and somehow that's a little bit familiar. That's the last thing he had before the veil was lifted. The imprint of that feeling is still inside somewhere. It's sick.

The heart is nestled underneath and in between all the organs. It seems like such a safe and protected place. That shield of muscle and bone and sinew isn't so remarkable, though. It can be penetrated, and the heart can be crushed as easily by love as by being torn out with bare hands.

His bloody frenzy halts as fingers close around the organ, and he removes it reverently. So fragile. The symbol of life and love and humanity is dead in his hand, by his hand.

The poetry isn't lost on him.

The liquid begins to cool his skin, chilling him. Slowly, lingeringly, he licks the bloody mass, tongue savouring and remembering the flavours.

He leans over and places a chaste kiss on the dead girl's open mouth, marking her lips with her own blood, murmuring sardonic thanks. Thanks for the chase, the fear, the gurgling screams, and the wide, dead stare.

Thanks for the memories.

He laughs then. A sound that is as warm as the fires of Hell and cool as a sepulchre. It defines his purpose, strengthens his objective, and he rediscovers his destiny.

Death.

The cathartic thought leaves a smile on his face as he leaves a crumpled body in an alley with a spring in his step. The organ is still warm and wet in his hand, a reminder of why and how and when and most importantly, who.

Who indeed.

Sanity is optional. And a little madness is good... for the soul.

With a smile, he turns for home. Maybe Dru will appreciate his trophy as much as he did.

~finis